


all I want is to fall with you

by emmaofmisthaven



Category: Anastasia (1997), Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2019-03-02 20:37:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13326045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaofmisthaven/pseuds/emmaofmisthaven
Summary: Collection of Dimya oneshots.





	1. Chapter 1

“Miss Romanov? This is Hôpital Saint-Louis, we…”

Anya’s heart drops in her stomach, a shiver of dread running up her spine. The woman on the phone barely has time to finish, before she asks, “Oh god, is it Alexei? Is he okay?”

Alexei, who always finds an excuse not to take his injections. Alexei, who likes to be reckless in front of girls. Alexei, who is a little too careless for his own good. Alexei, who will bleed out one day and… Alexei, Alexei, Alexei.

“No, Miss,” the woman replies, her voice too soft, too controlled. “We are calling you because you are the emergency contact for Dmitry Sudayev.”

It would be a fucking asshole move – as he liked to say so himself – to be relieved. And yet, she is. Anya breathes out a sigh, and it makes her feel terrible only seconds later, because. Why if it’s something big? Something dangerous? What if she’s relieved when Dmitry is in grave danger? What does that make her, then?

She rubs her face with the hand not holding the phone, before she remembers she’s been silent for too long. Her fingers are trembling, too, and with them her whole body. “Is he–is he okay?”

“Yes, we believe so. He got into a fight and was badly hurt. We need someone to sign some papers for him as he passed out and is about to go into surgery, though, so…”

“Yes, okay, yeah.” She closes her eyes, and lets out a soft curse in Russian. “Which hospital, again?”

Anya has never been fond of hospital. The walls are too pastel, the neon lights too bright, the smells too sharp. Everything is still and silent in the corridors, nurses talking is hushed whispers, people moaning in the distance. She’s spent too many hours sitting in uncomfortable chairs, or napping in cramped couches, to like hospitals. Hospitals means learning that the bullets hit Papa in the heart and pierced Mama’s lung. Hospitals mean Alexei could bleed out and die, and there is nothing anybody can do about it.

Hospitals are never a good thing, for the Romanovs.

She’s led through all the paperwork she needs to sign – nothing too serious, but still some internal bleeding involved that needs checking and fixing – and then the nurses show her to the waiting room. Give her coffee. Promise they will come back as so as they have news. Anya drops into the closest chair, head hiding in the folded arms on her knees, and forces herself to breathe. It comes out ragged and shaky, her heart beating too fast.

It takes her two tries before she can take her phone out of her pocket without shaking too much, and then she sent a quick text to the OTMA group chat. Her sisters, bless their hearts, reply to her in the blink of an eye, offering comfort and kind words and, in Tanya’s case, more details on the procedures Dmitry is going through. It’s nice, having a doctor in the family.

It’s only when the nurse comes back to tell her the surgery went just fine and he’s now in the recovery room, that Anya remembers to call Vlad. He’s elusive over the phone, saying he will come by in the evening, maybe, if he has time, and Anya forgets all about worrying. She’s going to kill Dmitry with her own two hands.

Anya has to wait two more hours before he wakes up, which is a lot of time to stare between her phone and his face. An ugly, purple bruise blossoms on his cheek, a black eye above his split lip, and knuckles that have seen a better day. His ribs are all tightly wrapped, and so is his upper arm. He looks like a mess. But she hasn’t seen him in four months, so. A nice mess. Gosh, even all bruised up, he’s handsome. She hates him.

He blinks away the meds with a groan, shifting in bed despite his wounds. He looks around at the hospital room with a sigh that dies on his lips when he notices her sitting there. She offers him her most not-taking-any-of-your-shit smile, and Dmitry has the instinct of looking sheepish. Good.

“Was it worth it?”

He sighs again, loudly this time, as he moves to sit up and winces all through it. Anya tries not to feel some kind of enjoyment in watching him suffer, but. He deserves it. “Hi, Nastya. Nice to see you, Nastya.”

“Oh, shut up!” She stands up and walks the few steps separating her from his bed, hands on her hips. “Was. It. Worth. It?”

Dmitry stays silent for a second too long, then, “Five grands.” He grins, a bloody, toothy grin, “You should see the other guy.”

“You should see _yourself_ right now, Dima!” She points at his broken body with one hand. “You’ll get yourself killed one day and…”

“And you won’t be there to help me. I know. I’ve heard the speech. I remember the speech.”

A small, nervous giggle escapes her as Anya looks away with a shake of her head. She bites on her lip, staring at the ceiling, before she grabs the hospital pamphlets on his bedside table and swats him with them. Dmitry groans and protests and shields himself with his arms.

“You’re! Such! A! Fucking! Moron! I! Was! So! Scared!”

“Jesus fuck, Nastya! Stop! STOP!”

Surprisingly, she does.

Panting and out of breath, glaring down at him. Dmitry’s eyes are too soft, his smile too knowing. He always knew her better than she knew herself, and it always scared her. He could get her thoughts with one glance, her needs with one kiss. He was perfect, too perfect. And he ruined it. Started illegal box matches on the side, because he’s a good fighter and it’s easy money. Just once in a while.

But once in a while became once a month, became once a week, became a mess. The flowers and nice restaurants and pretty necklaces couldn’t make up for the dread in her blood every Saturday night. The deafening silence of the hospital room when he stayed in a coma for three days. The heartbreak in his eyes when she says she couldn’t do this anymore.

Four months without him.

An eternity.

“Why are you here, Nastya?” he asks, soft, gentle.

She looks away, breathes out a humourless chuckle. “I’m still your emergency contact. They called me.”

“Yeah, no. Didn’t mean you had to come, Vlad is second on the list. Why are you here?”

She fidgets, looks at the ceiling again. Swallows down. Blinks, and then blinks away the tears. A sad giggle. A shake of the head. And then, the truth. “Because I miss you, Dima.” She runs a hand through the tangles in her hair, before she finds the strength to look at him again. “I miss you and you’re still an idiot.”

He chuckles, low, sad, then he motions to his leather jacket with his chin. “Inner pocket.”

She humours him, and goes to fetch his jacket – the one he always puts on her shoulders after a night of partying, the leather soft, the weight heavy on her back, reassuring. She puts a hand in the pocket, only to freeze when her fingers meet velvet. She stares at him, and Dmitry smiles.

“I stopped fighting after our breakup but… I needed the money for this. Just this once.”

She grabs the box and throws it at his face. Dmitry yelps when it hits him square in his bruised jaw, serves him right. “I don’t need pretty things, you moron! I don’t need the fine dining and the dresses and the beautiful life! I don’t need all of those things, when will you get that? I just…” She feels herself deflating like a balloon, when she shrugs. “I just need you.”

Dmitry blinks at her, mouth slightly opened in surprise, before he finds his wits again and motions for her to come closer. Against her better judgment, Anya does, until he grabs her hand and pulls, until she all but falls against his neck. He smells of blood and antiseptic, but his neck is still familiar, still the perfect shape for snuggling, and his hand is a comfort in her hair. She doesn’t realise she’s crying until she’s struggling to breathe, laughing and sobbing at the same time, while Dmitry whispers apologies in her ear.

“The hell were you even going to do with that?”

It’s his time to laugh nervously. “Apologize. Beg you to forgive me. Hope you say yes.”

“You’re an idiot,” she says again. But her smile isn’t a no, not exactly.


	2. Chapter 2

Dmitry is twenty-five when Captain Malevsky-Malevitch puts him on the Romanov case, and he knows it has less to do with his track record as an undercover agent and more about the fact that he’s a Sudayev. It should annoy him, but it doesn’t – if it helps get the job done, then so be it. The Captain tells him it’s going to be a long one, as in years instead of months, but he is ready. The Romanov family killed his father. He’s ready to take them down.

What he is not ready for, is to be assigned to the younger and most reckless of the daughters, as her personal bodyguard. Anastasia is as small as she is fierce, laughing away any worry he has for her safety, never caring about anything he says or does. She trusts him to protect her, because her dear Papa said he would, and she puts him into unbelievable situations for the heck of it.

Try as he might, Dmitry is charmed.

Gaining Nikolai Romanov’s truth is four years in the making, and Dmitry’s hands are not as clean as they used to be. That’s when Captain Malevsky-Malevitch’s message gets to him, concise in its simplicity – ‘if the daughter is in love with you, she’ll tell you everything’.

He puts his burner phone back in the safe before going to his bedroom. Her hair fans in golden waves around her face on the pillow, legs tangled in the white sheets. She moves in her sleep, shifting until Dmitry gets a perfect view of the swell of her naked breasts, until the expanse of her pale skin is the only thing he can think of. If the daughter falls in love with him.

The Captain doesn’t know she already has.

It’s another six months before the police bursts into the Romanov mansion. The intel, surprisingly, didn’t come from Anastasia but Alexei. A throwaway comment made during a particularly vicious game of Mario Kart, but Dmitry had joined the dots. All he had to do is send the info to the Captain and wait. Five years. Five fucking years being someone he is not, and it’s finally paying off. 

Five years, and his father’s murderer is finally going to be caught. 

He gets arrested alongside everyone else, to keep up with appearances for as long as possible. But Anastasia’s eyes find his across the room as a cop puts silver around her skinny wrists. Her eyes are hard, knowing. But, worse, he reads betrayal and heartbreak in the grey of her irises. Dmitry swallows painfully. He wills himself to move on.

She was nothing but a mark.

Vlad’s words, a few months back, play in his head again. It was Nikolai and Alexandra’s fortieth anniversary, and Anastasia was wearing a blue dress. It left very little to the imagination, especially for one who knew exactly what was hidden underneath the fabric. Dmitry couldn’t take his eyes away from her that night, standing as he was in a corner of the ballroom.  _ She will break you heart, _ Vlad said as he came to stand next to him. 

Dmitry remembers scoffing, telling Vlad he didn’t know what he was talking about. But now, filling forms after forms, doing the endless paperwork that comes after a mission, Dmitry has to admit. He can’t keep her out of his mind. Wondering where she is, how she is, if she copes with the arrest of her parents and close friends. Wondering if she thinks about him, too. It’s a selfish thought, for a selfish man. He does not deserve her love, nor should he want it. And yet. 

And yet he starts asking question. Not too openly -- he is a cop, after all, he can cover his tracks -- just a detail here, an inquiry there. It takes time, and patience, but he’s starting to get a picture of the situation. The Romanov children went not found guilty of their parents’ crimes. They still live in Paris. With their paternal grandmother perhaps.

That’s when Captain Malevsky-Malevitch slaps a post-it on his desk, startling his so badly he almost falls off his chair. Vlad snorts and the Captain glares, and Dmitry tries his best to look innocent until he reads the message. The address. “Next time, try some restrain, Sudayev,” is all she says before going back to his office. Dmitry blinks at her retreating form, then smiles.

Maria Feodorovna, unsurprisingly, lives in the 8th arrondissement of Paris, right in the middle of the Triangle d’Or. Everything is beautiful buildings and expensive restaurants, tourists taking pictures and ladies in haute-couture coats. Dmitry feels very much out of place in his jeans and shirt when he enters the building and climbs up the stairs to the first floor. The front door is massive, with an old-school knocker, but he goes for the bell instead.

Tatiana opens the door. She barely glances at Dmitry before she turns around and yells, “The rat is here!”

So much for an entrance. She doesn’t close the door in his face, though, which Dmitry takes as a good sign, and simply leaves, letting him to stand on his own in the hallway. Alexei shows up next, his reaction the exact opposite of his older sister’s. He’s all grins and hugs from the moment he sees Dmitry. Not that all surprising, when Dmitry remembers the hours spent playing video games that led to midnight confessions. Where the girls seemed to pretend like their parents’ business didn’t exist, Alexei was the only one to criticise it, and them.

“How are you, bro?” he asks -- always trying to look older than he is, to put himself to Dmitry’s level. It’s still as endearing as it used to be.

“Good. How about you? The old lady treating you well?”

“Can’t complain, really. They’re all pissed I spilled the beans, but…” Alexei shrugs dramatically. “I was meant to happen eventually, right?”

Dmitry doesn’t have time to answer, before a voice startles them both. “Thank you, Aloysha. I’ll take it from here.”

Four months, he hasn’t seen her. She’s still as beautiful as ever, curly hair falling around her face, sweater slipping down her arm and leaving one shoulder bare. Her grey eyes have a hardness to them as they settle on him, and Dmitry swallows around his nervous smile. He didn’t expect her to be happy to see him, but that doesn’t mean he was ready for her anger either.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, her voice cold like a Russian winter.

It’s an excellent question. One he should have expected, should have prepared an answer for. And perhaps he did, but Dmitry can barely remember his name right now, let alone any coherent thought. “I -- I wanted to make sure you’re okay.” He winces even as the words come out of his mouth. Pathetic.

Anastasia doesn’t look impressed at all. Neither should she be. “My parents are in prison, Dima, how do you think…” She stops, and squints her eyes. “Is you name even Dmitry?”

He sighs, which isn’t exactly the right thing to do if her glare is anything to go by. “Yes, it is. Everything -- well, almost everything I told you was true. Beside my job.”

“And your attentions toward me…” she mutters, so low Dmitry wonders if he was supposed to hear that. She doesn’t let him the luxury of a reply, though, as she goes on. “Papa knew there was a mole in the house. He just didn’t know who. He thought it was Gleb but…”

Dmitry can’t help it. He snort, just a little.

Anastasia’s eyes widen. “I knew it!” And then, “Who else?”

“Vlad too,” he answers, and smiles a little at her answering curse. “Nobody else, I think. Mostly the three of us.”

“For five years…” She looks away and shakes her head, just a little. Silence settles between them for longs seconds, and he’s too much of a coward to break it. As long as she allows him to stay by her side, he will shut up. When she looks back at him, a full minute later, vulnerability flashes through her eyes before they settle on something a little less hard than before. “Why are you here, Dima?” she asks again.

“I missed you.” The words tumble out of his mouth before he can push them back down his throat. So much for not wearing his heart on his sleeve.

Anastasia shakes her head again. “It was all a lie. You lied to me.”

He dares taking a step forward, closer to her. “Not about everything. Not about what mattered.”

She wraps her arms around herself, as if shielding herself away from him. She glances above her shoulder, and Dmitry follows her eyes -- there is some commotion at the end of the corridor, as if Alexei, Maria and Tatiana were spying on them and got caught red-handed. A smile twitches up his lips. They always were so ridiculous and childish with each other, you almost forgot they were the children of Paris’ biggest mobster.

“I don’t know, Dima… It’s too much.” She motions between their bodies. “There’s too much here and…”

His brain has barely formulated an idea that Dmitry springs into motion already. He bounces on the balls of his feet before taking a step back. “Okay, okay. I know! Close the door.” Her eyes widen. “Just, close the door, okay?”

She squints at him again, but does as he says, leaving him alone in the dark corridor. He blows air through his mouth and runs a hand in his hair, rolling his shoulders, before he knocks on the door again. Five long seconds of nothing follow, and Dmitry wonders in horror if she will just ignore him and leave him there forever.

But no, she opens the door again, with a raised eyebrow. Amused, almost, which is good. More than good.

“Hi,” he starts, holding a hand for her to shake. “I’m Dmitry. Nice to meet you.”

She looks down at his hand, then back up at him. The confusion in her eyes turns to understanding and, dare he say, fondness. She smiles, at least, as she grabs his hand. “Nice to meet you, Dmitry. I’m Anastasia.”

“I was wondering if you’d like to go for coffee sometimes?”

Yes, the smile, definitely. “I’d love to.”


	3. Chapter 3

Once is an accident.

It’s not like the breakup was bad, and Dmitry doesn’t see the point in changing his habits around avoiding her and her family. They’ve always been running in the same social circles anyway, what with the Neva Club being the unofficial Parisian hub for all Russian migrants.

So when Dmitry brings his date to the club and bumps into Alexei? He doesn’t think much of it. Alexei still very much is at university, after all, and the life of the party. His date – a pretty blonde who just arrived from Moscow to do her Doctorate in Russian Literature at La Sorbonne – eyes the youngest Romanov curiously, as if trying to place a name on that familiar face. Dmitry doesn’t help her; the last thing he wants is another round of ‘yes, I _do_ know the Romanovs, no they _aren’t_ as bad as their late parents,’ thank you very much. He’s done enough of that in the past.

“Dimaaaaaaa!” Alexei yells above the music when he sees it, opening his arms excitedly. The vodka in the glass he’s holding sloshes around, and the girl standing next to him at the counter glares at him. Not that Alexei notices. “How are you, my bro?”

Dmitry accepts the one-arm hug, and even finds himself grinning at Alexei. He’s always gotten along with the younger boy, hours after hours spent playing video games and poker together. And it’s not like Dmitry is going to be the asshole who pretends he now hates her siblings, just because. Especially not Alexei and Maria, he likes them way too much for that.

“I’m fine,” Dmitry replies. “How about you?”

His date – what’s her name again, Sofia? Sonya? Sasha? – leans against his arm, as if to remind him she exists. Dmitry wraps an arm around her waist, so she doesn’t feel too left out. Which, of course, means Alexei notices her immediately. He blinks at her slowly, his eyes a little too cloudy for his own good, before a low, ridiculous chuckle escapes his lips.

“You’re into blondes now?” The question could be innocuous but, on Alexei’s tongue, it sounds like the highest of insults. Especially with the way the boy’s eyes linger on her fake nails, and hair extensions, and the sparkly bag at her side. Weighted, measured and found wanting, in about half a second. Even Dmitry has to admit it’s impressive.

The girl looks at him, confused. “What does he mean?”

“Nothing,” Dmitry says quickly, pulling her along and away from Alexei.

Alexei, who downs his drink before pointing the glass at her. “He means you’re the most obvious rebound he’s ever seen in his life. God, Dima, be less obvious about it.”

Unsurprisingly, she runs away. Alexei offers him his best innocent-and-drunk pout before he turns around and orders himself another drink. Dmitry sighs, and walks away.

 

…

 

Twice is a coincidence.

He meets Natasha through Lily – she’s her niece, or her little cousin, or something, spending a few weeks in Paris during the summer before she goes back to St Petersburg. Dmitry wonders if Lily is aware that “she needs someone to show her everything Paris has to offer” sounds way dirtier than just bringing Natasha to the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre. But Lily is also paying for all the extras – opera tickets and restaurant bills – so Dmitry knows better than to complain. Especially with how pretty Natasha is. He’s only a man, after all.

Dmitry has never been a big fan of the opera, but he wills himself to make an effort as he shrugs in his one and only tux – the one he bought for Olga’s wedding and keep reusing, but nobody needs to know that. Natasha looks particularly lovely when he finds her in the lobby of the Palais Garnier, smiling at him as she takes his hand. They sit in Lily’s box, and chat about their favourite things to do in Petersburg during the summer.

“Excuse me, we’re – oh, Dima.”

Dmitry raises his head to meet Tatiana’s blue-grey eyes and surprised features. He must look the same, speechless for a few seconds at the sight of her. They’ve never been close, just friendly enough, but Tatiana has always intimidated him the most – probably because she looks too much like her mother for Dmitry to be completely comfortable around her.

“Oh. Hi, Tanya. How was…” He racks his brain to remember where her last Doctors Without Borders mission was, but comes up empty.

“Cambodia,” she finishes for him. “This is Volodia, by the way. We met on the field and… Oh my god, Tasha? You’ve grown so much!”

Tatiana lets go of her date, who awkwardly nod to Dmitry, so she can hug the other woman. Natasha looks as surprised as Dmitry feels, even more so when Tatiana and her date sit in the other two seats of the opera box and start chatting with them. Well, Tatiana does most of the talking, really, uncharacteristically talkative for someone like her.

“Oh, you will love the French Riviera!” she tells Natasha excitedly. “Nastya and Maria go there every summer, I’m sure they would love for you to go with them! We have a beach house in a little village near Marseille, and Nastya goes to the local market every Sunday to buy fresh fruits. Remember that year you came with us, Dima? It was so lovely!”

“Yeah, yeah, I remember…” he mutters, frowning at the game she plays.

“You went sailing with Nastya and she threw you off the boat! It was so funny!”

She only stops talking when the first act starts, and goes back to it during the intermission – talking about their cabin in the Alps this time, because why the hell not at this point. She recalls the particularly funny story of how Anastasia and Alexei had cornered Dmitry with snowballs, which had ended with him wet from head to toes and screaming bloody murder as he was chasing them around in the snow. He’d got the flu out of it, too.

It’s not until the end of the performance, when everyone has left the Palais Garnier and Dmitry has called an Uber, that he finds himself alone with Natasha again. She eyes him suspiciously, not that he can blame her for it. Everything about that evening was awkward, to say the least.

“So I gather Anastasia is you ex?” she asks lightly.

Dmitry sighs, loud and heavy. “Yeah. Yeah, she is.”

“You sound like you were really in love.”

He closes his eyes; he doesn’t need this, not tonight. Not ever. “We were.”

“What changed?” There is no judgement in her voice, only curiosity. Like she’s trying to fit the pieces of the puzzle back together, and is only missing one to get the bigger picture.

“You can only have make-up sex so many times before you admit something is broken between you.”

“Ah.” She’s silent for a beat too long. “I’m sorry, Dmitry.”

She’s sorry about more than just a bad breakup, and he can’t blame her. He gives her the Uber drive, and goes home by subway. Maybe they’re better off this way.

 

…

 

Three times is a pattern.

“He’s cute.” Dmitry almost jumps out of his skin, and chokes on his drink. “Tall and blond, very handsome. Definitely your type of guy.”

His eyes are wide, lungs still struggling for air, when he looks down at Anastasia next to her in the seat that was empty until a few seconds ago. Victor had to take a call – something about his boss being on his ass about a project’s deadline – and step outside of the bar for a moment. Daydreaming while waiting for him, it seems, was a mistake.

“What are you doing here?” he hisses. _In a gay bar,_ is how he doesn’t finish his sentence.

“Sisterly solidarity,” she shrugs, before she nods to another corner of the room. Maria is dancing, her arms around a pretty black girl’s neck. Even from afar, Dmitry can see her seducing grin when she leans in to whisper something in the girl’s ear – Maria has always been the flirtiest of the siblings, much to his amusement. He doesn’t really feel like laughing about it tonight, though.

“Great,” he deadpans, before he downs his drink. The alcohol burns his throat and makes him wince, but it’s better than facing Nastya for the first time in – too long.

So busy he is not staring at her but at a knot in the wood of the bar’s counter instead, Dmitry doesn’t notice Victor is back until she chirps, “Hi, I’m Anastasia, nice to meet you.”

Dmitry turns round in his stool to meet Victor’s confused face as he looks between the two of them. “Victor,” he replies as he shakes her hand. “Do you guys know each other?”

Dmitry knows what she is doing before she even does it, because then she says, “Yeah, we used to date!” too cheerfully for it to be entirely too natural. Especially coming from her. Nastya is only that happy when drunk or surrounded by puppies, or faking it. And she doesn’t look drunk, her cheeks still pale despite the warmth of the bar. And, obviously, no puppies in sight.

The wheels turn in Victor’s head for less than a second before his features close off, just a little. “I thought you were gay?”

Dmitry raises his drink in the saddest of cheers, because he knows what happens next. What always happens next. “Bi, actually.”

“Ah.”

There is an awkward pause, Victor looking everywhere but at him, before Dmitry takes him out of his misery. “Yeah, you can go,” he sighs, and the other man doesn’t need much more to leave. Dmitry glares at Nastya. “Happy?”

“You don’t need biphobic assholes in your life.”

“Yeah well, I thought _you_ didn’t need _me_ in your life, and yet here we are.”

He could have slapped her, and she would have had the same look of horror on her face. Any other day, he would feel bad about it – they both said things they didn’t mean that day – but Dmitry only ever goes out to scratch an itch these days, and she ruined his one-night stand for him. He’s more than a little irritated, right now, which makes him mean and asshole-ish.

“Why are you here?” he asks, before he catches the attention of the barman and points to his drink. The guy fills it up in a matter of seconds, and it takes just as long for Dmitry to downs the drink. When he glances back at Anastasia, she’s still looking for her words, before she nibbles on her bottom lip. Which she only ever does when she did something wrong; Dmitry’s brain connects the dots in a matter of seconds. “Are you sabotaging my dates?”

She raises her chin up, eyes hardening as they always do when she’s about to argue with him. “To be fair, you didn’t have much of a chance with Tasha anyway.”

He frowns, tilting his head to the side. “How do you know that?”

She nods toward Maria once more, and Dmitry feels like the biggest of idiots. Of course.

When Nastya says, “I miss you, okay,” it sounds like she’s ready to fight him about it instead of wearing her heart on her sleeve. He hates that; hates how defensive she always gets about her feelings, like she doesn’t exactly trust his with her love confessions. But most of all, he hates that he’s not even upset at her for what she did. It’s such a Romanov thing to do – if he’s not hers, he can never be anyone else.

Her show of dominance is a turn-on. “You have issues,” he comments, before he throws a couple of bills on the counter. He grabs her hand and pulls her outside; she follows happily. She knows she’s won, after all, he doesn’t blame her for being smug about it.

Or perhaps he’s the one who’s won, when she comes around his fingers and whispers that she loves him.


	4. Chapter 4

“You know you could ask Vlad, right? That’s, like, his job and everything.”

“You know you could ask Vlad,” Anya echoes in a childish voice.

Dmitry turns around, shoe in hand, to stare at her with a raised eyebrow. “That your interpretation of the SpongeBob meme?”

“Oh, shut up,” she pouts.

He grins to himself, before he hops on the chair. The spider isn’t even that big, all things considered – and knowing they live in a university residence where half the bathrooms are in a filthy state and cockroaches are a daily issue, not even that big of a problem. Dmitry would be more worried about the mouldy patch of wall behind the web rather than the spider he’s about to kill.

He does it in about half a second, slapping the shoe against the wall before he hops off the chair and turns back to Anya. She’s anxiously looking up at the spot where the spider used to be, bottom lip caught between her teeth – she’s always been a good actress when she feels like it, but this is an Oscar worthy performance right there.

The first time it happens was a week after their breakup. He was still upset and heartbroken, but he missed her too much to deny her anything. He’s always been so good at torturing himself, after all, and going to help her kill a spider was both the best and worst idea in the world. Best, because he missed her so much it hurt, and spending even five minutes with her was better than nothing. Worst, because it was only a reminder that those five minutes were all he was getting now.

And then she’s called him three weeks later. And again. And once more. He’d teased her about the fact that spiders are just proof of a healthy, dry house, and she’d levelled him with her least impressed stare. Not once did he point out that he knows perfectly well she’s not afraid of spiders. Not once before today did he tell her Vlad, the senior student on call for emergencies in their residence, could do it for her. Not once did he refuse to help her.

Until today.

“Can you cut the crap now?”

She frowns at him. He has to give it to her, she _really_ is good at this. “What are you talking about?”

He folds his arms on his chest and leans against the wall with a sigh. Of course she wouldn’t make it easy for him; when did she ever? “You’re only afraid of two things: gunshots, and Alexei getting badly hurt.”

She folds her arms on her chest too but, when it’s a way to appear nonchalant in Dmitry, it’s definitely a defence mechanism for her. Her eyes are hardening, her jaw clenching a little. She’s got too much fight in her, that’s always been her problem – not that Dmitry can blame her for it, because he’s exactly the same. The reason why they got along so easily. The reason why their relationship went up in flames.

“So what if I’m not comfortable killing another living being?”

He can’t help it; he laughs. “Please, don’t tell me you and Maria are trying to go vegan again.”

She shifts a little on the spot, her arms a little tighter around her chest, but her lips twitch with a smile she’s trying to hide at the memory. He can’t even remember why they tried to go vegan, but they lasted about five days before Maria devoured an entire chicken and Anya stuffed herself with a pepperoni pizza. Dmitry and the other Romanov siblings had quite the laugh about it.

She looks away and he knows she’s going to deflect before she even says anything. “Anyway I need to study for tomorrow’s exam so…”

He sighs, loudly. “Jesus, Nastya…” She looks up at the use of her nickname, and stiffens when he walks toward her. “Can you just be honest for once?”

And back to nibbling on her bottom lip she is, this time with the kind of vulnerability he seldom sees in her eyes. She avoids looking at him and, for a moment, Dmitry is certain she is going to find another argument to deflect and change the subject. But then she takes the tiniest of steps toward him, and it sends his heart racing against his ribcage.

“I miss you,” she mumbles, as if the confession pains her.

He takes a step closer, grabs her elbow softly. When she looks up at him, there is fear mixed with hope in her blue eyes. He hates that – the fact that she’s afraid he might reject her. Is she that clueless about the fact she barely ruined him for anyone else on this damn planet?

“I miss you too, you stubborn idiot.”

Her cry of indignation is muffled when he kisses her, hard and desperate, and then she forgets to complain altogether. Kissing her is always a fight, and so Dmitry can only laugh when she pushes against a nearby wall after only a few seconds. Damn, but he did miss her. And he’s not letting her go, this time around.


	5. Chapter 5

“Well, this is awkward.”

Maria stands next to him, cup of champagne in hand. She looks pretty in her pale blue dress, throwing him a knowing smirk – Dmitry rolls his eyes at her, but smiles too. That’s the problem with dating the same girl since high school; you’ve known her family for so long that it’s almost impossible to just cut ties when you break up. Especially when you are the godfather of Olga’s younger daughter, whose baptism is today. He couldn’t not come, thank you very much.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” Tatiana comments as she walks toward him. Tall and proud, she still kisses his cheeks in greeting and offers him a smile. He doesn’t expect that much more from her – they never were close, if only because Tatiana isn’t close with anyone – and isn’t that much surprised when she doesn’t even bother finding an excuse to walk away a few seconds later. Maria snorts into the sip of champagne she was drinking.

“Were you all expecting me to pretend like we haven’t known each other since high school or…?” he asks Maria.

Maria was the one he knew first, actually – same age, they were in the same class and, as a Romanov and a Sudayev, sat together when teachers were sitting pupils in alphabetical order. She had braces at that time, and didn’t know yet she was into girls. Dmitry would rather not remember what he looked like back then – small and skinny, with narrow shoulders he only grew into during his uni years and with hair it took him way too long to cut.

“We had a bet going on,” Maria shrugs. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”

Dmitry is about to answer something about Romanovs and their bets, when another voice interrupts them. “Wow. Awkz!”

He throws his arms up in the air at Alexei’s entrance, but still accepts the younger man’s one-arm hug. At least they are not pretending like they don’t know him, which would make everything all the more awkward. It’s not like anyone was at fault when he and Nastya broke up – weeks of tension and never-ending arguments leading to the mutual decision that it would be better for them not to go on further, because they were only suffering at this point. No pointed finger, no blame given. Just the sad, heart-breaking acceptance that love sometimes isn’t enough to keep your couple alive.

Thankfully for him, nobody else comments on his presence before the beginning of the ceremony – he wouldn’t stand a comment from the Romanov matriarch, that’s for sure – and Olga only offers him an encouraging grin before everything starts. He focuses on very little more than the priest’s words after that, and on his duties as Alix’s godfather during the ceremony. The entire thing takes forever, as things usually tend to do when church is involved, before they can finally move on to the village hall next door where the reception will take place.

Despite knowing a great deal of other guests, Dmitry finds himself not willing to socialise today. He knows exactly what people will ask him, or will not ask him but he’ll see the questions in their eyes anyway, and he has very little patience for it today. The answers are always the same, after all – yes, the breakup was mutual, no I didn’t cheat on her, no I don’t hate her for it, actually I’m still so madly in love with her it hurts like crazy.

He didn’t expect Anya to ignore him all night long but it still is a dagger to the heart when she sits in the empty chair next to him. With her crown braid, blue dress and flushes cheeks, she’s the most beautiful vision in the world.

“You’re sulking,” she comments with a smile. “It’s not a good look on you.”

“I’m not…” he sighs, but stops short at her raised, unimpressed eyebrow. Why is he even trying? “I’m just bored, okay.”

“That’s what open bars are for,” she laughs. Elbow leaning on the table and chin in her hand, she looks at him with such soft eyes than Dmitry fidgets a little, uncomfortable in how familiar and casual this all is. She must notice, too, because her body tenses a little, before she adds, “It’s nice to see you again.”

“You too,” he replies. Then, going into great lengths to look down at his watch, “I better go. Early meeting tomorrow morning.”

“On a Sunday?” she asks, incredulous.

Dmitry shrugs. “Lily wants me to meet with a potential client. You know her, nothing like brunch for an informal meeting.”

When she smiles, it’s proud and, dare he say, loving. “Look at you, Mister Sudayev. Going places and everything.”

He rolls his eyes playfully. In all fairness, Dmitry never would have started his freelance business if it weren’t for Anya, and her encouragements, and her never-ending belief in him. Where he had spent countless nights awake, worrying about his future and his career, she had never doubted his capability to succeed, not one second. Sometimes, Dmitry wonders if what she sees in him really is there; sometimes he thinks that she’s made him a better man than he could have ever been without her.

“Key word, potential,” he replies.

She grins, and leans back a little bit when he stands up and grabs his jacket. She lets him shrug it on before she stands up too, only stopping him when he’s about to go, with one hand on his forearm. When she looks up at him, Dmitry forgets everything else around them.

“You’ll do great. And if they don’t want to work with you, it’s their loss, because you’re amazing.”

His smile is soft, fond. “Thank you, Nastya.”

He doesn’t think twice about it when he leans forward to kiss her goodbye, years of habit engraved into his bones. She meets him halfway, her lips soft and pliant against his, her sigh warm into his mouth. It’s only when he breaks away from the kiss, and looks at her with her eyes still close, that he realises.

She blinks up at him, her eyes fluttering against her cheeks, just as confused as he feels. Her mouth opens in an expression of surprise, and his cheeks turn to flames.

“I – hm – I just – I should go,” he somewhat manages to stutter, before he all but runs away.

He barely registers Maria’s look of absolute shock as he walks past her on his way to the exit door, too busy berating himself to care about his surroundings. What a fucking moron he does! Kissing her goodbye like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like they didn’t break up two months ago and haven’t seen each other since, like it’s still his right to claim her lips. She could be seeing someone else for all he knows – she doesn’t, Alexei makes sure to keep Dmitry updated on that front, no matter how many time he asked the youngest Romanov to just stop – or she could just not be into him anymore. He has no right to – do whatever the fuck happened just there.

A hand grabs his wrist before he reaches the door, effectively stopping him in his track. When he turns around, Anya has an unreadable look in her eyes. He’s always been so good at reading her thoughts – when she’s ready for a fight out of stubbornness, or out of hiding her vulnerability behind anger, when she’s worried, or doubtful, or upset. Sometimes, he liked to joke he knew her better than she knew herself. Today, he has no idea what to expect.

“Don’t run away from me,” she tells him, her voice hard.

“Nastya, I’m so sorry, I…”

“Did you mean it?”

It’s a testament to the way she asks it, like she’s about to fight him on it, and to how much of an asshole he can be around her when she’s like that, when Dmitry scoffs his answer. “No, I was thinking, oh, what would be the best way to confuse the fuck out of Anya tonight? And clearly, kissing you was the only option.”

She levels him with her most unimpressed glare and, for a moment, Dmitry is almost afraid she is going to slap him. It would be well-deserved, but she has a mighty right hook and he very much wouldn’t like her to leave a bruise. But then she huffs through her nose, and shakes her head. “You’re such a jerk.”

“Yeah, tell me something I–”

She grabs him by his tie before he can finish, pulling him down so suddenly he can only gasp the end of his sentence before she kisses him. She puts so much fight into it that it leaves Dmitry breathless, chuckling into her mouth when she bites down on his bottom lip before he remembers himself and wraps his arms around her to keep her close.

They fumble as she guides him to a door on the side that leads to the bathroom, almost slamming it behind them when he pushes her against it. He grabs her thigh and presses himself against her, relishing the moan stuck at the back of her throat. It’s been too long, way too long, for him not to take pleasure in the lust darkening her eyes and reddening her cheeks, in the way she’s pliant and vocal when he kisses his way down her neck and collarbone.

A sharp knock on the door startles them both, Dmitry’s head snapping up to meet her wide eyes.

“Just so you know,” comes Tatiana’s voice from the other side, “This wall isn’t nearly as soundproof as you think it is, and there are a lot of small children in the room.”

When Anya blushes this time, it’s for an entire different reason altogether, and she slaps Dmitry’s arm when he can’t help but hide his face against her neck to laugh. “Thanks, Tanya,” she replies, somewhat managing to keep her voice even. “We’ll get a room.”

“That would be nice, yes.”

Dmitry can only hold on a few more seconds, before he bursts into laughter. Though not as loud, Anya giggles too. “Well, that wasn’t embarrassing at all.”

He raises his head to meet her eyes and grin at her. His hand cups her cheek, and he brushes his lips against her – nothing but a soft caress this time. “I love you,” he says, so simple in its truth. “I’ve missed you.”

“Take me home, Dima.”

And so he does.


	6. Chapter 6

Tuesday night is trash TV night for Anya. A habit that started when Maria and she were sharing a small apartment during their university years – fluffy pyjamas, junk food and even junkier programs – and that never really stopped ever since. Maria has a place of her own she shares with her girlfriend now, but the sisters still text each other over who is going to date who in the trash TV programs about losers behind stranded on an island for three months.

What can Anya say? She loves that crap.

Pooka sleeps at her side, head on her feet to keep her warm, and she has a drink of red wine to go along with her pizza. Anya is set for the night, the wine giving her the right kind of light buzz she needs to unplug her brain and just enjoy whatever is on TV at the moment.

She’s in the middle of texting Maria about one of the contestant’s dress clashing terribly with her shoes, when the sound of a key unlocking her front door startles her. Pooka raises his head, ears perking a little – he doesn’t bark, which means everything is fine. Weird for Alexei to crash at her place on a Tuesday, he’s more used to doing it after the student parties of Thursday nights, too drunk and tired to travel all the way to Nana’s suburb villa. But Anya is glad he still has enough brains about him to come here, instead of wandering around aimlessly.

Except it’s not Alexei.

She watches, dumbfound, as Dmitry strides into her apartment like he still owns the place. Well, not really. He kicks his shoes off in the hallway and then slides his way to the bedroom, socks against hardwood. He vaguely waves in her general direction, not even looking her way – shoulders slumped, hair falling in his eyes. She hears him let himself fall on the bed with a low groan, and then silence.

Pooka looks up at her, curious but begging. He whines a little bit, and takes off the moment Anya nods at him, running for the bedroom and jumping on the bed excitedly. Seconds later, Dmitry’s loud mumble of “yeah, good doggie” makes its way to the living room. Anya can’t help it; she smiles.

It’s been three weeks now, without him. Three weeks of letting Dmitry deals with whatever bullshit issues he’s having at the moment when it comes to him, and them, and his damn insecurities. It’s not the first time it’s happened, but it’s the first time he’s stayed away from her that long – for her own good, he says, and at some point in the seven years they’ve been dating, Anya has stopped fighting him on it. He always comes back anyway. And it’s not like he breaks up with her because he doesn’t like her; quite the contrary.

Still, three weeks is a very long while, and his sleep-deprived brain apparently doesn’t agree with his stupid conscience anymore. Anya rolls her eyes, and switches the TV off. When she makes it to the bedroom, one of his feet is dangling over the edge of the mattress and he’s holding Pooka so close to his chest she’s afraid for the poor dog. But Pooka, just like her, has missed Dmitry, and he’s too busy happily wriggling his tail to care about being embraced to death.

She takes Dmitry’s shoes off before she switches off the lights and goes to bed too. Unsurprisingly, but much to the dog’s disappointment, Dmitry lets go of Pooka to move up in the bed and grab Anya’s instead. He puts his head on her breast and holds her close, like he’s afraid she’s going to disappear any minute now.

“You done being an idiot?”

“Sh. Tired. Sleep.”

“Taking that as a no.”

He still smells like sweat and smoke after his shift at the Neva Club, the stink of the place following him around everywhere, but still Anya runs her fingers through his greasy hair. He purrs a little at the caress, and rubs his nose between her breasts, effectively rendering her breathless.

“You know,” he mumbles next. “Rings are expensive. Fuck diamonds.”

Her heart leaps in her throat, then falls at the bottom of her stomach, as her fingers still in his hair and her breath gets caught in her lungs. Her heart drums against her ribcage until it’s just white noise in her ears. “Is it, now?” she manages to ask.

Maybe she shouldn’t use his sleep-deprived state to get a few truths from him, but it’s not like Dmitry is otherwise telling her anything much these days anyway. “Yeah. And fuck your sister too. She – fuck Tanya, man. She said no.”

Anya finds herself frowning, lost in trying to find some logic in Dmitry’s words. “What did Tanya do?”

“She doesn’t give me the ring. Said no. Fuck. Didn’t want to.”

Frowning a little bit more, Anya tilts her head to the side. As if it will help her brain makes the mental connections in Dmitry’s broken sentences and thoughts. Which, funnily enough, she manages to do. “My mother’s diamond ring?”

“The pretty one.”

“She can’t give it to you.” Dmitry groans another curse. “Can’t, not doesn’t want to. Cause Maria has it already. She’s proposing next week.”

“What.” It’s said so flatly, yet Dmitry finds the strength to propel himself up on his arms and stare at her. His eyes are hazy with sleep, his hair a rightful mess, and his expression so confused that Anya can’t help but kiss his nose. Which confuses him even more, apparently.

“She’s proposing to Lucie next week.”

His mouth opens wordlessly, like a fish out of water, before he ungracefully drops his head to her chest again, stealing the air from her lung as she groans with pain. A string of mutter curses is mumbled against her skin, and Anya can’t help but laugh this time.

That’s such a fucking Dmitry thing to do – ask Tatiana for their mother’s ring, since she has the old jewellery box, and then jump to conclusion when she refuses, instead of waiting for a logical explanation like a logical human being. And because Dmitry is Dmitry, he would have read it as Tanya’s refusal to propose to her little sister, and so her dismissing of him as a member of their family. No wonder he just disappeared off the face of the earth for three weeks; that was literally all of Dmitry’s anxieties at once, that Tatiana threw in his face unknowingly. This beautiful, stupid moron.

“Am a moron,” he echoes.

“Yeah, that much is clear.” She caresses his face, and grins when he leans into the touch like an affection-starved kitten. “But it’s in part why I love you.”

“Great.” She laughs at his deadpan voice; exhausted Dmitry is the best. “Glad we cleared that up.”

“Now sleep. You can propose in the morning.”

And he does. With homemade blinis and blood-shot eyes.


	7. Chapter 7

“She’s worried about you. We all are.”

Anya rolls her eyes as she tucks her phone between her shoulder and her cheek, grabbing two jars of jam. “She’s not worried, she’s overbearing. She wants to come and check on me, so she can spend the next three months criticising everything about my lifestyle.”

Olga’s sigh echoes loudly in her ear. Anya’s sister is silent for long second, as if looking for her words and her legendary diplomacy, before she replies, “You know how old-school Nana is. Would she rather you move in with someone? Yes. But that doesn’t mean…”

“That doesn’t mean she’s allowed to lecture me about still being single at twenty-seven every time she sees him.” Anya is the one to sigh this time. “Strawberry or orange?”

“Orange,” Olga replies. “I’ll talk to her, okay? Just try not to burn down the kitchen before she arrives.”

“I’ll do my best.”

With a few more words about how much she loves her, her older sister hangs up, leaving Anya alone with her thoughts in the middle of the breakfast section of the store. She shakes her head to clear her mind, before she puts the orange marmalade in her basket and the strawberry jam back on the shelf.

She knows, deep down, that Nana only wants what is best for her – even if ‘what is best’ in Nana’s mind is an ideology from centuries ago. That Nana is simply afraid Anya’s life is too lonely, that she works too much. Anya doesn’t know how to tell her grandmother she is fine, she doesn’t need a man for her life to be happy and fulfilled. A point of argument between them ever since Anya moved out of the family house once she found a good enough job to pay the rent.

And now Nana is coming to dinner, and Anya is freaking out. Typical.

“Excuse me?” a masculine voice, in Russian, stops her rambling thoughts. She turns her head to find someone towering over her – not that it’s particularly rare, with how small she is. He looks familiar, with his brown hair and kind eyes and the dimple in his cheek – familiar and very handsome – even if she can’t quite place his face. “Are you Anastasia? From 3B?”

She blinks up at him, before her brain connects the dots. Of course, he’s familiar. Pretty boy from 3C, who nods to her politely every time she sees him in the hallway. They’ve never exchanged more than a ‘hello’ before. She doesn’t know his name, let alone the fact that he apparently speaks fluent Russian, a feat rare enough in Paris.

“Yes. 3C, right?”

He nods, and his eyes twinkle a bit. Damn. “Yeah. I’m not usually in the business of approaching women in empty stores, believe me,” he laughs. “But I heard you speaking Russian, and it’s been a long while.”

“I know what you mean. I’ve been speaking French since I was five, but my siblings and I always switch back to Russian together. Rolls so much better on the tongue.”

He runs his hand through his hair as he grins at her – the strands fall back messily in front of his eyes, and Anya is transfixed. “Tell me about it! Anyway, just wanted to say hi. The mailman always gives me your letters by mistake if the name is in Cyrillic.”

She’s the one to laugh this time. “Yeah, my aunt Olga. No matter how many times I tell her, she still refuses to write down the Roman version of my name. ‘I refuse to erase your origins, Anastasia Nikolaevna.’”

She moves away from the jam section and grabs a loaf of bread, and he follows her around. Which should be weird, maybe, but not as weird as the looks they are being given for speaking Russian so freely in a small French store.

“Where are you from?” he asks her, the question so typical between migrants.

“Pushkin. It’s just next to…”

“Petersburg!” he grins. “Damn, I miss my city.”

“Me too, neighbour.” She turns around the corner, and focuses on the rows of eggs for a moment, before she grabs one box. “How long have you been in Paris?”

“Two years, give or take. Lost my job, and couldn’t find anything, so I decided to try my luck elsewhere. What about you?”

“I was seventeen…” She licks her lips, wondering how much to share, how much to say, before she remembers he’s seen her last name anyway. He must know. “After my parents’ murder, we all came here to live with my grandmother.”

Her eyes don’t leave the eggs for long second, as if afraid of what she will see in his if she looks back at him. She’s never been stupid – she knows the reputation her father had, and knows the assassination was justified. But it’s one thing to know, and another to confront someone who might agree with getting rid of Nikolai Romanov.

“I’m sorry,” is what he says instead. She looks up at him, surprised. “I mean… He was a terrible man, but nobody deserves to lose their parents.”

When she smiles, it’s small but genuine. “Thank you…” And then, with a frown, “Sorry, I didn’t catch your…”

“Dmitry!”

He curses under his breath, his eyes gone a little wider. Anya follows his line of sight above her shoulder to find a pretty blonde looking back at him. She barely has time to ask if it’s his ex, before his hands land on her hips and pull her to him, making her gasp a little. His eyes send her silent apologises, and her brain catches up with what he is about to do only half a second before he kisses her.

She freezes for an instant, before she melts against him. His lips are warm and soft, and he lets go of her hip so he can cup her face instead, tilting her head to deepen the kiss. It’s slow and tentative, but his mouth is pliant against hers and Anya takes a step forward until her breasts brush his chest.

When he lets go of her, his thumb lingers on her jaw and his breath fans against her face. Her lips are swollen and tinkling, her lashes heavy when she opens her eyes once more; she can’t remember when, if ever, she was kissed like that. He seems confused too, his eyes clouded and his cheeks a little redder than before – a good look on him, pride surging through her veins at the thought that she was the one to wreck him like this, just a little.

“I’m sorry. She just won’t leave me alone…”

Anya blinks, having momentarily forgotten the hows and whys. Perhaps this should be the point where she should be mortified, or upset, to be used in such a way. Instead, her fingers wrap around the fabric of his shirt, to keep him in place. “Only apologise if you’re not planning on doing it again.”

He just grins, and kisses her again.

Tomorrow, he will make her blinis and she will sit on his kitchen table and kiss him.

But tonight, she only smiles at her Nana, and pretends not to blush when Nana lectures her about needing a good Russian boy in her life. Oh, if only Nana knew…


	8. Chapter 8

They don’t stop, don’t look back, until they are certain that they have crossed the Polish border and left Russia in the distance. The sun is starting to set, temperatures lowering dangerously, and Dmitry’s feet are aching from all the walking they’ve been doing for hours. But it is only when Anya stops, one hand against a tree and her breath laboured, that he allows himself a break too. 

“I’m tired,” she mumbles softly. An understatement if Dmitry ever heard one. 

He turns toward Vlad without thinking. “Anya’s tired. Let’s take a break.”

The older man falls to his knees immediately with a loud “Thanks God for that!” that makes Dmitry smirk. He can always count on his old friend for the theatrics. 

When he looks back to Anya, she is staring at him with wide, curious eyes. It takes Dmitry a beat before he ponders on his own words. A week ago, he would have said the exact same words with nothing short of sarcasm on his tongue, and perhaps also a comment on how she supposedly walked halfway across Russia and still finds a way to complain about a few kilometres through the forest. 

But the fanthom pressure of her body, wrecked by dangerous shivers, still weights against his side, his arm wrapped around her shoulders in an effort to calm down her panic attack. The memories were real, if unwelcomed in that moment. He’s never seen her so distressed before, tears shining in her big, blue eyes. 

Until yesterday, he only saw her as a naive little orphan, like there are so many on the streets of Petersburg. But now... He is his father’s son, always has been. And so Dmitry takes his protective instincts from his father; this need to protect and defend what is his. 

Anya isn’t his. But she’s part of his gang, and it means something now. It means loyalty. Kinship. Understanding.  And, also, it means not thinking twice before following her when she jumps off a moving train. The only thing Dmitry cares about more than money is his own life, and yet he didn’t even question her, or himself, when Anya grabbed the side of the train and threw herself into the unknown. He didn’t stop to think about it, only followed her lead and rolled into the snow when he landed.

It scares him. First rule of being a street rat; don’t get attached. He’s seen too many people die, of hunger or worse, too many people arrested, too many people disappear. No emotional bond means no mourning, just moving on and staying alive where other couldn’t.

But now he has that tiny thing of a woman staring at him because he’s fucking  _ nice _ to her for the first time in weeks, and Dmitry’s stomach twists funnily. He’s so used to Anya’s glares, so unprepared for the soft understanding in her blue eyes, that he doesn’t quite know how to react. All tongue-twisted and blank mind, he simply shrugs at her before he turns around to check on Vlad again. Vlad, who’s looking at them like he’s never seen them before, Vlad who knows way too much and nothing at all.

“How long till the next village?” Dmitry asks, to change the subject even if neither of them said one word. Because it is late, and getting dark, and they will not last the night if they have to sleep under the stars. Because he didn’t go that far to die of hypothermia. Because he will be damn if he has to watch Anya, arms wrapped around her middle like she can keep herself warm, shivering all through the night.

She’s not his, but he’ll make damn sure she’s all right.


	9. Chapter 9

It’s warm in the palace.

Dmitry doesn’t think too much of it; he’s used to the biting winds of Russian winters, to the cold slipping under your clothes and into your bones. But fires are lit in every rooms of the palace, shadows dancing on the walls until everything looks like molten lava, and Dmitry’s cheeks redden a little. He rubs his fingers against his trousers, licks his lips. He wasn’t meant to be here tonight but Nikita, who works at the restaurant with him, got sick and begged him to replace him instead. It’s easy money. It’s the promise of one night not sleeping under a bridge.

He grabs a tray full of champagne cups and makes his way around the crowd of rich aristocrats. If his father could see him, dressed in a ridiculous suit, playing the help for the Tsar. But a job is a job, and Dmitry’s empty stomach wins over his political convictions. It’s been three entire days of starving himself. He would put his ideologies to the side for less, at this point.

A woman with a ermine scarf glares at him when he gives her a drink; a man bumps into him and Dmitry almost drops the entire tray; a child screams happily to his left. He feels dizzy, his fingers are tingling – it would be so easy, to snatch a watch, a ring, a bracelet. They wouldn’t notice. They probably wouldn’t even care, and he could live like a king for an entire week.

A girl brush against him, the skirt of her dress tangled in his legs, and his entire word turns to fire.

 

…

 

Anastasia startles. Looks away. Only the crowd of people, minding their own business, chatting, whispering, plotting. Nobody to look back at her with wide eyes, nobody to call after her, nobody at all. She ignores the disappointment falling like a brick in her stomach, when her heart had been in her throat only a second ago. She looks around her once more, just for a moment, just in case. But still nothing.

Tatiana must notice her crestfallen face, for she is next to her a heartbeat later, her cold fingers against Anastasia’s elbow. “What is it, Malenkaya?”

“I thought…” she starts, before choking on the words. She shakes her head. “My mind is playing tricks on me.”

She grabs a cup from a nearby waiter and downs it in two large gulp, much to her older sister’s disapproval. But Anastasia is nineteen now, old enough for champagne and wine, old enough to ignore Tatiana’s scolding – it looks too much like their mother’s, a fact that Tatiana uses to her advance more often than not.

When Anastasia turns around, it is to see Maria dancing around, changing partner every ten steps. She turns and dances and laughs, hand brushing against that of every suitor coming close to her. Anastasia knows her game – Maria’s way of assessing a crowd of would-be husbands, touching their hands and finding them cold. She is yet to find her soulmate, but it doesn’t stop her from looking – and from enjoying herself as she does so, if the way she moves into one Duke’s personal space is anything to go by. Maria doesn’t mind a bit of fun with other men until she finds the one. Anastasia envies her this carefree spirit.

There isn’t much Anastasia takes seriously in life, but that she does. It must be Olga’s romantic inclinations rubbing on her, or those novels she stole from Aunt Xena – the ones where warmth is not just something shared by soulmate, but also sets your body on fire for reasons that have Anastasia blushing like the innocent maiden she is.

“Nastya…” Tatiana tries again.

“I need some air,” she replies, hastily. “I will be in the garden, if anyone is looking for me.”

Tatiana offers her one last worrying glance as Anastasia grabs the pans of her skirts and walks toward the back of the ballroom. Thankfully for her, everyone else is too busy with the ball to stop her, and the guards know better than to try. The cold air against her cheeks when she steps outside is a relief. For a moment, she fancies herself walking around the park and make her way back to the Alexander Palace, but she knows her mother will be upset at her if she finds her way to her bed before the evening is over. So instead she walks toward the Greek Gallery, walks up the stairs to admire the ancient statues lining up inside.

Despite the moon hanging high in the sky and the soft wind, Anastasia isn’t cold. No shiver wrecks her body, no goosebump raises on her bare arms. It is, actually and surprisingly, quite warm for a spring night. Especially to Russian standards. It makes for a nice change, after the stuffiness of inside, bodies close to each other until you can barely move.

Anastasia moves around slowly, admiring the statues she’s known since she was a little girl. Maître Pierre would sometimes bring her here for a lesson, talking of tales older than life itself, of gods and sirens and centaurs. Those were her favourite lessons – myths are so much more interesting than French grammar, or stuffy, boring philosophers.

So lost in her own thoughts that she doesn’t notice she is not alone, until she turns on her heels and lets out a yelp of surprise at the dark shadow in the corner. She presses a hand to her own heart with a heavy sigh when the man turns around, his face lit by the burning end of his cigarette, red shadows dancing mysteriously against his handsome features.

 

…

 

Dmitry startles at the unexpected scream.

He didn’t expect to be found here – ran off to take his one and only break the moment he could find an empty table where to put his tray. He knows he is a coward, running away. But what else is there to be done? The entire palace is full of members of the royal family, people who will never look twice at him – people who didn’t even notice he exists when he was walking around them and doing his job. What does he really would happen, once he finds his soulmate? That she will welcome him into her life with open arms, him the street rat, him the anarchist’s son?

No, Dmitry know better than to believe in fairy tales.

The Zorya are not looking over him from the stars.

So he didn’t expect to be found there, hiding from his soulmate; he didn’t expect to be found there, by Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanova herself. She seems as surprised as he does, mouth slightly opened, delicate hand against her heart. Even now, with her parents dead and her brother made Tsar, she wears one of those white dresses the sisters are famous for. It falls all the way to the ground, and shows a tasteful amount of shoulder. Dmitry’s eyes linger, perhaps for too long, before he remembers his manners.

“Excuse me, Your Highness,” he starts, and hopes it’s the right title. He has no idea. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

She blinks at him, once, twice, before she shakes her head a little bit and schools her features into a less startled expression. An easy smile blossoms on her lips, beautiful yet unexpected. “Don’t worry. My fault entirely, I didn’t look where I was going, let alone if anyone else was around.” She looks back at the statues behind her. “Those ones make for good company, don’t you think?”

It takes a moment for Dmitry to understand she is making a joke – she is joking with a stranger, and smiling at him, on a secret garden in the middle of the night, away from a ball. Dmitry’s cheeks set themselves on fire, and he looks down at his shoes.

Perhaps it his mistake.

Because he does not see her taking a step toward him, and so does not immediately understand why the air is suddenly so much hotter than it was only second ago. He frowns, and looks up; the Grand Duchess has a puzzled look on her face as she looks back at him. She takes a small, tentative step forward, and Dmitry’s body is on fire. She steps back; he breathes again. She moves closer, and his blood turns to molten lava, slow yet burning under his sky as the warm spreads from his heart, down his limbs, down down until all he can feel is the warmth of her into his own soul.

She stops, moves back a tiny bit, the temperature lowering just so. Despite his muddles brain, his heart beating so fast in his throat he feels like throwing up, Dmitry is the one to finally close the distance between them. Heat is not something he particularly likes – his Russian bloods longs for the cold of winter, after all – but the scorching warmth of her soul meeting his is something else, entirely. Like going inside after a day in the snow, warm air biting at your cheeks even when your skin is so numb you can’t feel it anymore. Like the first sip of green tea, burning down your throat until it settles comfortably in your stomach. Like warming yourself in the biggest blanket you own, cocooned away from the outside word.

Like coming home.

She is so close, he can see the green around the blue of her eyes, the soft freckles on her nose. So close her breath fans on his mouth, so close he just has to move his hand the slightest bit to brush his fingers against the fabric of her dress. So close, he would only need to lean forward and–

“What’s your name?” she asks in a whisper, as if afraid to break this moment between them.

For a moment, Dmitry’s mind is empty of any thoughts – her voice is as soft and delicate as her body, and he forgets everything, even his own name, stammering on the sounds like a young boy enamoured for the first time. Which he might as well be, at this point.

“Dmitry Konstantinovich Sudayev,” he manages to say, after way too long.

 

…

 

Oh what would her poor mother say, if she were here today, if she knew Anastasia’s soulmate is nothing but a waiter, nothing but the help. Olga’s was a soldier, met during the Great War. Middle class, yet a hero of war. Tanya’s is a handsome Greek Archduke, a good title, good family, and above all good fortune.

Nastya’s is a poor waiter with hollowed cheeks and broad shoulders, with pride in the angle of his jaw and gentleness in his eyes. Nastya’s soulmate is a prince of the gutters, handsome and tall and, oh, the things her heart does. She steps closer to him, tilting her chin up so she can look him in the eyes. There is red high on his cheeks, and it makes him look younger – innocent, almost. Kind.

“Hello, Dima,” she whispers into the wind. Nothing but the night around them, nothing but the echoes of music from inside and the loud beating of her heart. “I’m Nastya, nice to meet you.”

Her hand rises to play with the ridiculous white bowtie around his neck. She understands Maria all of a sudden, when her brain pictures nothing but her fingers pulling at the tie until it comes undone, ripping the buttons of his shirt to leave his collarbones bare. She’s never experienced such things before – pure want, unadultered lust. Dmitry’s eyes seem darker, and she dares think he shares her thoughts.

When she finally pulls at the bowtie, it is to bring him down and crash her lips against him – there is nothing but warmth, and fire; an entire sun of their own, lightening then entire world, melting even the snows of Siberia. When she kisses him, it is hot and scorching and absolutely perfect, her body pressed into his, her hands in his hair. So she kisses him, and kisses him, and knows she will never be cold again.


End file.
